What the Pho?

I think it’s time we have an open and frank conversation about me and food.  I’m most definitely probably over-thinking this but I’m getting the distinct impression that people feel like they have to cater to what I like to eat.  Like, oh, we can’t go there because Denise might freak out throw a tantrum make funny faces refuse to eat not like it.  And that’s not true because, you see, I’ve changed.  Like in a totally good way!

Look, I admit it.  I have food issues.  Not like Meredith Baxter Birney classic tv movie food issues or anything serious like that.  I, obviously, eat – but it’s homestyle, hearty, processed fare that’s finger lickin’ good.  And that’s just dinner. 

I don’t eat a normal breakfast.  Actually, I’ve never eaten a normal breakfast.  As a kid, I ate Tastykake chocolate cupcakes.  Then there was the period when I ate Chips A'Hoy cookies.  When I got bored with those, I ate two containers of Swiss Miss chocolate pudding.  After that phase, I ate a baked potato with ranch dressing.  Every morning.  Until I graduated.  And guess what?  My pediatrician told my mom that it was okay.  As long as I was eating something, that’s all that mattered.   These days, I prepare myself a heaping bowl of applesauce to start the day.  For those who are wondering, I finally switched to a glass jar.  ‘Cause it’s better for the environment and all.   

Let’s talk about lunch.  I’m weird about sandwiches.  Well, actually, I didn’t think I was weird until just the other day when I heard myself explaining my disgust about squashed sandwiches to a colleague.  The whole explanation sounded weird.  And then I noticed his expression and I realized, oh my gosh, I am weird!  Note to self, delete that information from any online dating profile!  I just, literally, cannot stomach a squashed, soggy sandwich.  All I can say is – thank heavens for the invention of the protective armor of Tupperware!

In the interest of word limits, I’ll spare you a discussion of all of my “texturalist” issues.  Just two words sum them up – rice pudding.    

What’s this all boil down to?  Well, I feel like I’m putting my friends out when it comes to dining choices.  Like a few weeks ago, when my pals met me in the lobby of our building in a totally punctual manner and asked, in a halting, cautious way - "How do you feel about Vietnamese food?"  I half-wondered if they had a conversation on their walk down to meet me 8 minutes late like, "Oh, do you think she’ll go for it?  Ohhh, she’ll make that face.  We don’t want her to say she’ll go but she doesn’t really want to go."  For the record, I have extremely compassionate and kind friends – they would never make me go anywhere that I didn’t want to go.  And they're probably not talking about me on their walk down to the lobby.  Unless they're running late.   

So they asked about Vietnamese food.  And I promptly fell down on the floor, screaming and wailing, and thrashing my legs against the floor and said, “I just don’t know why you can’t meet me on time.” 

No, seriously. 

I was game.  I was nervous.  But I was game.  See, the fact of the matter is – given the choice, I’ll always go to the Boston Markets, Jason’s Delis, Noodles because well, that’s routine and I like routine.  But I don’t mind being pushed into trying new things.  I might panic about it.  And maybe even be overwhelmed by it.  But when it’s all over and done with, I’m usually happy that I’ve tried eaten done it. 

Which is how I felt when I ended up in a Vietnamese restaurant on a hot July day being guided through the process of  eating pho.  Pho.  Which is not pronounced “do-re-me-fa-so-la.”  Nor is it said like “fe-fi-fo-fum.”   Or like “Foo Fighters.”  No.  Pho.  Like “fugettiaboutit.”  Or “what the fu…dgescicle?!”     

I gotta admit - I didn't use chopsticks.

What the pho is the big deal about pho?  Well, not much really.  It’s soup with noodles and beef.  (Granted, I probably had a tame version).  It certainly wasn’t cringe-worthy or fear-inducing and I don’t think I made any faces.  I would definitely eat pho again.

In fact, I think the next time we all want a break from the regular routine, I’ll tell my compassionate, kind pals that we should go for some Vietnamese food because it’s a good day for some pho.

Birds of a Feather

First , you should know that I’m not a big bird person.  Besides the actual Big Bird, I don’t particularly like avian creatures, especially if they’re talking, angry, or Angry.   

Second, I don’t consider myself a particularly nurturing person.      

That’s why the events of this past Saturday were a bit shocking.  Well, at least, they were to me. 

See, I was heading over to my friends’ house for dinner and as I was leaving my development, I saw a bird in the middle of the road, clearly injured or in some other sort of bird distress.  As I passed it and drove on by – because it was just a bird after all – I glanced into my rear-view mirror and saw a hawk swoop down to try to pick off that little bird.  Hawk’s gotta eat, yo. 

What I saw next made me do something that was atypical of my bird-hating, un-nuturing self.   See, as that hawk went in for the kill, the little hurt bird’s birdie friends flew down and tried to protect it.  They flew in and chirped and batted their wings and that hawk flew away.  And the little hurt bird continued to struggle in the middle of the road. 

That’s when I flew into action (first use of a pun in 20 days!)

Commence Operation Save Wounded Birdie. 

I made a quick left and turned around to come back up the street.  As I was driving back up, the Death Hawk swooped down again.  And once again, the birdie friends scared him off. 

I turned onto a side street trying to figure out what to do because I didn’t have any sort of plan. Honestly, these types of situations are a little beyond me.  I mean, I have friends whom, I’m pretty sure, have the emergency animal clinic on speed-dial but me, what do I know about saving animals?  Cats are one thing.  Birds are a completely different animal.  Literally!  But in the moment, I didn’t care because I was going to Save. That. Bird. 

As I was on the second point of my three-point U-turn to get back to the scene of the bird drama, I saw the battle between predator and prey replay for a third time.  But then a passing car forced the protector birds to take flight.  That gave Death Hawk its opening and it swooped down and, well…Bye Bye Birdie.  I guess you could say Death Hawk got carry-out that night. 

I know it’s all survival of the fittest and all that but I found the whole situation to be very powerful.  Realistically, even if I had been able to save that little bird – or at least move it to the side of the road – it probably wouldn’t have survived.  But yet that little bird – hurt and broken – valiantly tried to hang on as it struggled to survive in the middle of a big, scary mess that it found itself in.  And in those last few moments before it became hawk food, that little bird’s friends were doing all they could to protect it.  It made me think...well, yes, birds of a feather do flock together.

And hawks are just mean.

Wegmania!

On Sunday morning, I rose with the morning sun and headed to the grand opening of the Wegmans in the next town over from mine.  Wegmans is kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets – it’s an experience to shop there.  Who wouldn’t want to have an experience when they’re grocery shopping?!   I was one of many in a line that eventually snaked around the building and down the street waiting for the doors to open.   Unfortunately, my #Wegmania hash tag didn’t catch on in the Twitterverse but that didn’t quell my excitement. 

One of my friends tweeted me and said she was guessing that I was one of Wegmans’ biggest fans. I responded with the truth – not really, I’m just into supermarket grand openings.  I wasn’t really there to shop.  I was just there to be there.  To say – “Yep, I was at the grand opening of the Wegmans.  I came.  I saw.   I was there.“

See, on a summer morning 14 years ago, I was on the other side of a similar set of doors looking out at a similar line snaking around a brand-spanking new supermarket.  It wasn’t a Wegmans.  Nope, my supermarket was Genuardi’s.  If you’re from the Philadelphia suburbs, you’ve heard of Genuardi’s.  Maybe you even shopped at one.  Customer service and quality goods were hallmarks of the Genuardi’s chain and for a long time they set the gold standard for grocery stores in Southeastern Pennsylvania – kinda like the Disneyland of supermarkets (ahem).       

On July 2, 1998, as the Genuardi family opened the doors to Roslyn Store #35 – after the family priest blessed the produce – I was at Register 3, at the ready to scan with gusto, punch in produce look-ups with abandon (4011, 4080,…), and ask the imperative question – “Paper or plastic?”   

It wasn’t my first job but it was the first job that pushed me out into the world.  The seeds of the person I am today were planted and nurtured at Genuardi’s…probably in the floral department where I spent many summer days watering and deadheading flowers.  We were a tight-knit staff – high school and college kids and actual grown-ups – who had fun while we were cashiering, baking, deli slicing, pizza tossing, meat grinding, and melon handling!  There were Halloween parties, Genuardi brothers sightings, picnics, Midnight Madness sales, and, once, we even had the Mummers strut their stuff in the center of our produce department!  For a girl who commuted to college, it was the closest thing I came to a collegiate experience.  And our school colors were black (pants), white (shirt), and green (apron).      

While I didn’t receive a degree from Genuardi’s, I did receive a much-needed education.  I learned that when people hear the word “snow” in the forecast, they will suddenly need more milk, bread, and toilet paper than they know what to do with; I learned how to use a helium tank (and you better believe that comes in handy!); I learned the difference between a geranium and a hydrangea; I learned the joys of the life known as “third shift;” I learned that for every nasty person in the world, there are ten more who are kind and generous; I learned that a manager who believes in you has the potential to change your life.  And I learned that all good things come to an end eventually.

A couple years into my employment, the Genuardi family sold their stores to a larger grocery chain.  That was the beginning of the end – or “21^st Century and decline” as it is referenced in the Genuardi’s Wikipedia article.  Eventually work wasn’t fun anymore.  Work became work.  And that's never a good thing.  Genuardi’s was never the same after that sale, even though it stayed on the supermarket scene.  But late last year, that grocery chain decided to close or sell off the Genuardi’s stores.  By the end of this summer, Genuardi’s will “cease to exist,” leaving behind a legacy of customer service, quality products, and, I imagine, quite a few aprons, and name tags.    

I thought about Genuardi’s a lot while I waited in line for the Wegmans grand opening.  I thought about how lucky I was to experience a grand opening on the other side of the doors.  To be able to say that I had been there.  When they finally take the Genuardi’s sign down at Roslyn Store #35, I hope to be there so I can say “I came.  I saw.  I’m so glad that I worked there.”      

The Wedding Weekend That Wasn’t…

…at least, it wasn’t for me.   It was for the bride and groom.  And, at the end of the day, that’s all that matters, right? 

This weekend, my cousin* – the groom in this particular wedding – got married in Chicago.  And that meant – WEDDING ROAD TRIP!  Most of his large, extended clan lives in Delaware and Maryland so there were lots of wedding road trippers headed to the Windy City late last week to celebrate the big day. 

Who doesn’t love weddings?  Okay, honestly, it’s the wedding reception part that everyone really loves.  I mean where else is it perfectly acceptable for white ladies my mother’s of a certain age to cut loose on the dance floor to The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling”?  Where else can herky-jerky movements punctuated with finger snaps be considered good, no, great dance moves?  Where else can a 33 year old lady order a Shirley Temple without the bartender looking at her askance?  Oh come on, you know you just flashed back to the last time you had a Shirley Temple!

Anyway, I was excited when I scored an invite to the wedding.  The groom happens to be the son of one of my mom’s favorite nephews (well, they’re all her favorite.  Even the practicing Wiccan.  Hey, every family needs their practicing Wiccan) and we have a soft spot in our hearts for him because - one – he lives in the Greatest Place on Earth and two – a long, long time ago when my parents and I visited his family in Georgia, he went with us when we went to a bunch of historical places and, um, his mom took us to the Cabbage Patch Museum.  Which was, as you can imagine, AWESOME - even for a 14 year old with a Shirley Temple drinking problem. 

Once we knew we were going to the wedding, my mom and I bought plane tickets, booked our hotel room, and signed up for a Chicago Gangsters Tour and a Chicago Food Tour.  We were going to make a real weekend – give or take a few days – of it.  I began dreaming of eating deep dish pizza, a treat I haven’t had since I stopped earning Book It coupons  (it’s tough growing up in a thin crust family, lemme tell you!)   I brushed up on my Al Capone facts.  I took lots of Vitamin Extroversion to overcome bouts of inevitable shyness.  I prepped conversation cards to help get through awkward elevator silences (A sampling – How was your trip to Hawaii?  How did you do in your recent race?  How ‘bout those Phils?  What do you think of the financial crisis in Greece?  Obama or Romney? )

I was all set. 

But then my mom called.  She had a medical emergency and she wasn’t able to go to the wedding.  So, that left me with a choice.  But really, in situations like that, there’s not much of a choice.  At least, not to me.  Instead of spending the weekend in Chicago, I spent the weekend at my parents’ house in Pennsylvania where I needed to be.  I made sure my mom was okay, tried (unsuccessfully, sorry) to edit the dramatic telling of her medical emergency down to 18 seconds, and attempted to get her to not dwell on where we weren’t. 

At the end of the weekend, the bride and groom were married.  The wedding, from what I’ve read on Facebook, was beautiful.   Congratulations to the bride and groom!

And my mom is okay. 

That’s really all that matters.  Not that, for me, it was the wedding weekend that wasn’t.  There will be other weddings, and wedding receptions, and chances to herky-jerky finger snap on the dance floor and order Shirley Temples all night long.     

I guess it could’ve been worse.  I could’ve been planning a funeral.**

-----------

 *Technically, the groom is my first cousin, once removed.  But who keeps track of that stuff?

**At least, according to my mom.  No doctor actually said that she could've died.  I think she was just trying to make me and my brother feel guilty for teasing her.  She just doesn’t understand – that’s how we cope.  ;-) 

Being Brave

My mom likes to tell this story about the times I was in the hospital for my surgeries – when it was time for me to go into the OR, I’d get into the wheelchair or take the nurse’s hand and I would go down the hall and not look back.  Not even to give her or my dad one last wave as they prepared to wait in rooms that were made for just that.  Nope, I would just go on my merry way.  I was so brave. 
                                         
It’s been over 20 years now but I vividly remember those trips to the OR.  If I was in a wheelchair, I would count how long it took to get to the final destination.  If I was walking, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.  But I would not look back.  I wouldn’t look back because as scared as I was of what was in front of me, I was more scared about what I might see behind me.    

So, I would stare straight ahead, swallowing the lump of tears and fears lodged in my throat, and I went on my way straight into a room made for operating.

And when I woke up, I didn’t have to be quite so brave anymore, because they were always there, bravely waiting.      

Cleaning Out My Closet

Much to my mother’s chagrin, I’ve turned her the guest room into a walk-in closet.  Well, to be more precise, I’ve turned the bed into a dumping ground for all of my clothes.  See this photo? 

Play I Spy!  Who can find the teddy bears?
Who sees the Oprah-inspired Vision Board?

95% of my clothes are piled on the bed.  The 5% that isn’t on the bed is in the dirty clothes pile on my bedroom floor which is so obviously where dirty clothes are supposed to go, right?   

I don’t want you to think I’ve gotten lazy and just started piling my clothes on top of the bed.  Nope.  I did this on purpose.  See, I’m decluttering.  Again.  Those of you who follow my status updates on Facebook know I declutter with some regularity.  Um, okay, you know that I attempt to declutter with some regularity.  Look, I just have a lot of crap.  And I don’t like to get rid of my crap.  I actually have trouble letting go of my crap.  Some days I feel like I’m just one tragedy away from showing up on an episode of Hoarders.

Anyway, back to my clothes.  I have a lot of clothes.  Which is surprising because I never have anything to wear.  Or I just wear the same things over and over and over.  I read somewhere that we wear 20% of our clothes 80% of the time.  So, decluttering experts say that you can get rid of 80% of your clothes. 

That’s what I’m trying to do. 

But it’s so hard!  I don’t want to get rid of anything!

See that pile of clothes on the corner of the bed in the front of the bed?  That’s a whole pile of graphic tee-shirts.  Now, I have quite a history with graphic tee-shirts.  Especially oversized ones.  I used to go to school wearing shirts like that.  With rolled up sleeves, of course, to make me look cool.  Somewhere in that pile is the shirt that I got from the Roots store in Toronto that I bought so I could pretend that I was an Olympic athlete (I also have an Olympic beret that I wear during the winter when I pretend to be a winter Olympian).   Also, in that pile is a shirt that I bought from the JC Penney’s junior department three years ago that proclaims “I’m a tank top, flip-flop kinda girl.”  I’ve never worn that shirt but I strongly identify with that sentiment and so I definitely don’t want to get rid of it.  Now, I’m much cooler than I was in high school so I don’t wear many graphic tees with rolled up sleeves anymore but I keep them because the hoarder responsible voice in my head says that I might need them for painting.  Not that I do a lot of painting. 

I’ve got a few dress shirts somewhere on the bed.  They’re classics from Ann Taylor Loft that I doubt will ever go out of style.  Problem is, I got fat outgrew them.  But I don’t want to get rid of them because what if I manage to lose the 25 pounds that I’ve gained since I bought them (look, it’s been a rough couple of years) and I can comfortably wear them again one day?  It could happen! 

There’s a dress pile too.  Until last year, I didn’t really wear dresses but I certainly have a lot of dresses!  Like the red knit dress with a cowl neck that I wore twice – both occasions around ten years ago.  But I looked awesome in that dress.  Or at least that’s what everyone told me.  Anyway, it’s been hanging in the back of my closet since I moved into my house.  Before that it hung in the back of my closet in my apartment.  And, well, before that, it hung in the back of my closet in my bedroom at my parents’ house.  I know I’ll probably never fit into wear it again.  But I don’t want to get rid of it because I like looking at it.  When I can get to the back of my closet. 

I don’t even want to get started on the pants.  I’ve got pants in three different sizes.  The size I grew out of.  The size I prefer because I hate tight clothes.  And the size that my fashion-forward friends told me that I really am.  I keep them all because, well, I might need them all someday. 

See, it’s just so difficult!  Now, I do have two small bags ready to go to the Salvation Army but I think I can - no, I need to - get rid of more.  So.  Any advice?  How do you know when it’s time to let go and get rid of your clothes?

Maybe I'll just keep the clothes on the bed until I wear each article of clothing at least once!  Who needs a guest bed anyway? 

Parental Attachment

It seems like ever since the Time magazine cover featuring a mom breastfeeding her toddler son came out, attachment parenting has been all over the news.  I’m not really familiar with the philosophy of attachment parenting mainly ‘cause I don’t really care about follow parenting issues, unless it’s about parenting your own parents (seriously, have you ever had to play peace-maker between two bickering sixty-somethings?)  The whole hubbub over attachment parenting got me thinking about my own parents’ parenting philosophy. 

Would they have been considered attachment parenting parents?  I don’t think so.  I mean, I wasn’t breastfed…at all, let alone into toddlerhood.  Not because of a lack of trying but because my tongue curled back and I wouldn’t latch or something like that.  Although the nipples that I drank from were special, they weren’t my mom’s. 

On the other hand, I was a co-sleeper.  But only because my bed would end up a soaking wet mess most nights forcing me to seek the dry comfort of my parents’ bed.  And then I’d end up wetting that bed which, I’m sure, wasn’t pleasant for anybody.  The perils of co-sleeping!

We didn’t eat organic or locally grown food; although after I choked on a soft pretzel when I was 18 months old, my mom put all of my food in a blender and served me liquid everything.  I didn’t see solids again until I was like 12.    

I don’t recall seeing any pictures of my mom carrying me around in a baby sling.  Then again, baby slings might not have been invented back when I was a baby.  Actually, I don’t think car seats were even invented when I was a baby.  Maybe attachment parenting wasn't even invented when I was a baby! 

Attachment parenting is more than just breast-feeding, co-sleeping, healthy food, and baby slings though.  According to the API website “The essence of Attachment Parenting is about forming and nurturing strong connections between parents and their children.”

My parents may not have been attachment parenting types and they might not have had an actual parenting philosophy but they did do a few things right.  One of them was “forming and nurturing strong connections” between me and them.  I’m positively attached to my parents. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s annoyingly annoying not.  But I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Although I would’ve preferred more solids when I was little. 

(Happy Belated Mother's Day to my mom and all the other moms - attached or not - in the world!)